


Comeuppance

by Amymel86



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (Joff is a scumbag), Abuse, Art Therapy Tutor Sansa, Criminal Jon, Cuckolding, Dark Jon Snow, Dark!Jon, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Infidelity, Modern AU, Prison, affair, domestic abuse, sansa is married to Joffrey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-10 22:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15301728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/pseuds/Amymel86
Summary: Jon’s touch slid from her wrist to the back of her hand, feeling strangely drawn to that big rock she wears on her finger. He circled the flashy diamond a few times before looking up at her. “It was him wasn’t it?”Again, she did not answer but the shuddering inhale she took was answer enough. Jon’s stomach rolled with hot liquid rage.I’m gonna kill him.OR - Jon is involved in organised crime and during a stint in prison he enrols in an art therapy class that Sansa holds.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Titania_Queen_of_the_Fairies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Titania_Queen_of_the_Fairies/gifts), [kattyshack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/gifts).



> *peeps head in* hello *tiny wave*  
> I really wanted to do something for the dark jon event and this idea wouldn't leave me alone! Unfortunately I haven't managed to complete it in time but I'm determined to get the second chapter out by the end of this week!
> 
> WARNING: in this fic Sansa suffers from spousal abuse at the hands of joffrey. He will get his comeuppance in the second chapter. 
> 
> Gifting to Tanya and Kat who read through most of this for me to reassure my coffee-addled brain!
> 
>  
> 
> Beware  
> \- typos and grammar mistakes abound!  
> \- having only visited a prison once in my life... I have no fucking clue, okay? just enjoy the fiction lol  
> \- i rely heavily on jon's connections in this 'corrupt world' - so just go with that :D

The bell rang out and echoed in the hallway. Jon heard his cell door buzz and unlock, as did all the others that were due to eat. With over three hundred inmates in the North Wing alone, Castle Black Prison couldn’t exactly afford to have all its criminals out in the communal area together, now could it? He sat up from his bunk and tilted his head. His neck made a cracking noise.

 _Just six more months to go,_ he mused glancing at the large utilitarian clock on the wall of the canteen area. It also had the date in tiny little numbers on its face. _Well, six months and six days,_ Jon amends.

This stint in prison is his first, and he hopes his only. Eight years got reduced to six for good behavior. The fact that the sentence shouldn’t even be his doesn’t cross his mind any more. His boss, Mance, practically brought him up as a kid, showed him the ropes of the business, helped him see the best _‘methods’_ for getting shit done. He’d started out as under Mance’s wing, soon becoming a useful pair of fists when someone needed to be reminded of how things are done, but it hasn’t been like that for a long time and Jon doesn’t plan to revert back to those violent days.

You see, Mance and Jon were unaware that there was an informant in their midst. But soon enough, some uniforms came sniffing through their business and managed to connect the dots for a few beatings, a few exchanges of powder as white as snow for bundles of cash and a few unregistered Glock 19s. _Those pesky ‘dots’._

Jon agreed to take the fall for this one. Mance has contacts at the police dept, but this case had gone beyond his grasp. Jon’s boss was seasoned when it came to doing time and the sentence would likely be longer, based on his record. Jon’s was practically squeaky clean in comparison. All tracks that led to Mance were covered, or re-routed to Jon, and here he was, at the tail end of his time away and staring down his last few months.

It hadn’t been so bad if Jon was being honest. Mance was _known_ in here, and Jon was treated with the same respect by association. His fist has had to connect with a jaw or two every now and again to teach a well learnt lesson, but those instances were few and far between (and were thankfully kept under the radar). Plus, Mance has connections high up – the Governor of Castle Black Prison himself. We’re all just living in a cruel corrupt world, but if it means Jon benefits from a bit of leniency or the odd added perk courtesy of his association with Mance, then who is he to complain?

One such perk arose that very morning.

Every now and again the prison system will introduce a ‘learning experience’ for the inmates – something to stop them from spending their days being idle, or fighting, or jacking off in their cells – something to help them feel like they’ve accomplished something, or some other such bullshit. Jon had been given first dibs on the classes each time. He’s done them all; computer skills, anger management, even baking. This one seemed no different; Art Therapy.

He sat at the back, leaning low in his chair with his legs sprawled out before him. This was a small class, ten inmates in all and most of them seemed to need the therapy part of this session more than he did. It didn’t matter – it’s just another thing to keep him occupied until he get released and it beats laying on his bunk going over and over how he’s going to break it to Mance that he wants to go straight once he’s out.

What he’ll actually do for a living, he doesn’t know. All Jon is aware of is that he doesn’t want to do too many runs in a place like this over his lifetime. He wants to not be watching his back at every hour of the day. He wants a safe mundane job, a wife and kids… a fucking dog too, he thinks.  And to have a shot at any of that, he can’t carry on serving Mance. He can’t keep dirtying his hands with blood or drug money.

Jon’s head lolled back and he stared at the ceiling fan whirling around – slow and ineffective as they all wait for their tutor.

“And here’s your class Mrs Baratheon,” Jon heard a prison guard say. His head rose unenthusiastically until he got his first look at her.

 _Fuck. They lettin’ a piece like that into a place like this?_ he thought, as he admired ‘Mrs Baratheon’s sleek copper hair, her opal pale skin and her kind smile. She had a figure made for a dirty mind too, all long legs and smooth curves wrapped up in a red dress.

The morons around him instantly started wolf-whistling and hollering some crude shit in her direction until the guard boomed over them; reminding them to treat their tutor with respect if they wanted to continue with any lesson at all.

Mrs Baratheon thanked the officer sweetly in a peaches and cream kind of voice that made Jon sit up and lean forward with interest.

The lesson began but he wasn’t particularly paying any attention to the instructions dropping from that pretty little mouth of hers. The sound of her voice though, _that_ was note-worthy, _that_ was worth his attention. Jon stored away the sweet smoothness and feminine tone to the sound of her speech somewhere within his memories. Her eyes were a crystal kind of blue. They twinkled a bit when she laughed at herself for nervously falling over her words. Jon didn’t know what she was talking about but _shit_ , he could listen to her for hours.

Before he knows it, paper is handed out and Mrs Baratheon is walking around handing out pieces of charcoal. With each twist of her hand Jon eyes a big shiny rock on her fingers. He wonders what ‘Mr Baratheon’ does for a living, he wonders how much a guy has to earn to have a girl like that.

_You have that sort of money in the bank. Dirty money though. She probably wants a guy with a job that comes with health insurance, a pension plan and no risk of death or a prison sentence._

“Here you go,” she smiles down at him, holding out the offered charcoal. Jon takes it, looking up into those pretty blue eyes and making sure his fingers linger on hers. Her skin is every bit as soft as Jon thought it’d be. He doesn’t thank her, only lets his lips twitch a little in acknowledgement. He hasn’t got a fucking clue what he’s meant to be doing with this charcoal.

By the fourth session, Jon has made his mind up about Mrs Baratheon. She’s too good for this place, too good for him and probably too good for the lucky son-of-a-bitch who put that rock on her finger. She’s also told them her first name – Sansa. It sounds like she looks, innocently sensual and silky smooth with a hint of spice, sweet and unique. He may or may not have groaned it this morning when he jacked off alone in his cell.

Sansa bends at the front of the class, reaching down into her bag for some art supply or another as she unintentionally gives the inmates fuel for their wank-banks. Jon flexes his hand. He’d had to pin Amory to the wall after the last session when he heard him spouting all the filthy things he wants to do to her. Jon had seen red at the words and the thought of Lorch’s dirty hands on her. She’s too good for this place.

Sansa’s wearing a tight pencil skirt and blouse today. Jon’s pretty sure she has no idea that she presents as the epitome of visual eye-candy to everyone in the room. _Fuck, even the God-damned guard stood against the wall is takin’ a look._ Jon flexes his hand again. He can’t beat on the officer – he may have some sway with what goes on in this place but that would be overstepping. He settles for clearing his throat rather loudly and glaring. The man had the decency to flush and avert his eyes at least.

Coming to realise that Sansa was intelligent and caring too only seemed to double the spark of desire Jon got from these classes. She studied one of his lame-ass sketches of a bowl of fruit last time and asked him if he felt the constant need for control. _“The pencil marks you make are so tight and precise,”_ she had observed, _“you took great pains to shape this little section of fruit, but you haven’t attempted to block in the other shapes.”_ She looked up at him then, her baby blues round and genuine. _“Do you find that you’re a details person, Jon? Do you like things done ‘just so’?”_

 _I have to be._ “You could say that.”

She’d granted him a small smile. He’d take it – whatever she was willing to give him. _“Do you find it hard to relax? Do you want to?”_ she’d asked him then and he was floored. Somehow, from staring at a few scratchy marks on a piece of paper, Sansa had managed to deduce something about him that he wasn’t even sure he knew how to explain. He grunted in response and took back his terrible little sketch.

At the end of that particular class, as the inmates were filing out of the room, ready to be escorted back to their blocks, Jon overheard Sansa talking to the officer about possible one-on-one sessions with some of the inmates that she feels would really benefit from expressing themselves through art. He wasn’t sure that she would consider him one of those such inmates, but he’s damned if he’d not going to get himself a slot at one of those sessions.

His first attempt was thwarted by some young uppity guard who obviously didn’t know the way things worked around here. He also refused to heed his request to talk to someone else. The kid clearly didn’t know who he was talking to.

Jon went straight to the phone on his cell block. A fat man was cradling the receiver to his mouth, murmuring something about missing the person on the other end. Jon gave him a few more seconds before irritation overtook him. He pressed down the button that cut off the man’s call.

“Hey!” he wheeled around only for his eyes to widen at the sight of who had rudely interrupted him. Jon raised his brows, daring him to continue. The man stuttered for a bit and then Jon remembered who he was and that he had been put inside this place on charges of attempted rape. Jon may not be the best egg in the basket, but he has a moral code. He decided to take the man’s call charge card for himself before he jerked his head for him to get gone.

“Mance,” he said once the call had been answered, watching the other inmate scurry away, happy to yet again benefit from being high up on the hierarchy of this place.

“Jon! It’s been a while,”

It had. Although gaining from his connection to Mance whilst inside, Jon had avoided contact with the man if he could help it. “I need some strings pulled.”

“That so?”

Jon went on to explain that he wanted in on these one-on-one sessions, and that if at all possible, the absence of being watched like a hawk during his time with Sansa would be appreciated too.

“In all the years you’ve been in that place, yer never asked anythin’ o’ me. Why now? Why this? Seems odd.”

Jon rolled his eyes impatiently. He had to admit Mance had a point, but he didn’t care – he wanted more time with Sansa.

“S’just interestin’ is all. Sometin’ to pass the time in here. You know how it is.”

The phonecall ended with Mance’s promise to see what he could do with his contacts on the inside. A few days later Jon’s name was being called for his first private session with Sansa.

He was led to the same room where her group classes take place. It was plain, utilitarian; like most spaces in this hell-hole. The walls were bright white, and the floor made of the same heavy-duty grey epoxy coating as per the rest of the building. On one side of the room were three perfectly square windows that overlooked the inmate’s yard. On the other, three more identical windows mirrored them, but these only showed the corridor outside, to keep an air of ‘openness’ with the classes. _To make sure we know we’re always being watched more like,_ Jon mused, his eyes flitting to the security camera in the top corner of the room. He sighed and slumped even further in his plastic chair, stretching out his legs as he waited for Sansa.

She was wearing some fancy high waisted trousers today, the grey pin-stripe making her mile-long legs look even longer. Jon wet his lips and sat up a little straighter as she entered the room, giving him a breezy smile before carefully placing her bag on the desk at the front. Her blouse was a pretty blue like her eyes and she wore a little red scarf tied around her neck.

“I’ve got to tell you Jon,” she started as he watched her unpack the things for the session, “I was surprised that they put you forward for these sessions.”

Jon’s eyes flit to the guard watching through the windows out to the hallway. The man sneered but moved out of view, clearly not too keen to allow Jon to get his wish of more privacy but granting it anyway. He distantly wondered if Mance had used threats or bribery this time. It didn’t matter. As long as it worked. “That so?” Jon asked watching Sansa move to the front of the desk. She perched on the corner, pretty as a picture.

“Well, I’ve read your file-“ that made him grimace a little, but it was what it was, “-and from what I know of you from our group sessions, I’m not sure what it is you’d like to get out of this today?”

“Maybe I wanna explore my anger management issues?” he shrugged nonchalantly.

“Is that what led you to commit those crimes? Your inability to control your anger?”

Jon narrowed his eyes at her. Fuck, she could twist him up on the inside like a pretzel. And she’d do in so few words too.

“I’ve done some things I’m not proud of,” he stated, clearly not willing to elaborate. It wasn’t answering her question, but it was true.

“You’re deflecting.”

“Aren’t you meant to ask me to draw a bowl of oranges or some such shit?” He shifted in his seat. She watched him with her intelligent eyes and _Seven Fucking Hells,_ how is this turning him on so much?

“I can ask them to bring me another inmate to replace you if you’d rather not have a session with me, Jon?” Sansa raised an eyebrow making Jon’s gut swoop.

He shook his head and thankfully she stopped asking him questions. She handed him some paper, a pencil, eraser and a small compact mirror from her purse before asking him to study his reflection and draw what he saw.

Jon’s first attempt was shit – of course it was, he’s not a bloody artist. But Sansa asked him to do it again. She pointed out some of his mistakes; areas where he had assumed he’d known what the lines or shading would look like, rather than really focus on what was staring back at him in that round little mirror. He ended up drawing his face four fucking times. But Jon had to admit, with each one you could see definite improvements.

“What do you think others see when they look at you?” Sansa had asked during their next session. She’d given him her mirror again and asked him to focus on one aspect of his face. He’d chosen his eyes and Sansa had seemed pleased with his choice.

“I dunno,” he shrugged, trying to concentrate on getting his iris looking right and ignoring the fact that she had come to sit on the edge of his desk. He could practically taste the delicious scent of her perfume and he briefly wondered where on her body she had spritzed it.

“What do you want them to see?”

Jon was really starting to think he could do without the ‘therapy’ part of these art therapy sessions. Hell, he doesn’t particularly enjoy the ‘art’ bit either.

He paused and looked up at her. She was wearing a tight knee-length skirt and a thin polo-neck sweater. Jon made no attempt to answer.

“I think you want people to see danger when they look at you,” she supplied.

“Shouldn’t they think I’m dangerous? You’ve read my file,” he cocked his head at her, “you know the things I’ve done.” _Some of the things anyway,_ he mentally added.

She contemplated him, her tongue briefly rolling out to wet her lips. “Should _I_ think that you’re a danger? Should I be worried? Should I be asking for a guard to stay in the room with us instead of that one that always wanders off when I’m in here with you?”

His mouth twitched. _Of course_ she would notice the guard giving them distance. She’s rather astute, this one. But then her words sunk in properly _‘should I think that you’re a danger? Should I be worried?’_

“What? No.” his brow furrowed, “I’d never hurt you. What kind of sick bastard would hurt a woman anyhow?” Jon may be far from a saint, but he figured he knew where to draw the line. Besides, the thought of _her_ being afraid of him turned his stomach. His mind wandered to the last job he had completed under Mance’s command. A sweaty man tied to chair with the stench of fear wafting off him. Jon had pressed the tip of a blade to his gulping throat until one single ruby welled up and dribbled down his neck. It had been Jon’s instruction to make sure that particular bird didn’t sing. The guy had pissed himself with promises of keeping his mouth shut. His putrid panic had been nothing to Jon, but Sansa feeling _any_ kind of fear? _Shit_ – he’d rather let Mance gut him. “I’m not like that.”

“I know you’re not,” Sansa said softly, she reached across, unexpectedly cupping his cheek as he stared up at her. Jon’s heart thumped painfully, and his lips parted a fraction. He was sorely tempted to glance over to make sure that guard wasn’t peering through the window, but that would mean drawing attention to what she was doing.

“I would never harm you,” he repeated his sentiment, somehow feeling if he carried on talking, she wouldn’t pull away and deny him her touch. Fuck, how long has it been since he’s been touched by a woman? “I’ve done things, but… I’m not the _devil…_ at least I don’t think so, anyway.”

Sansa’s lips twitched as her gaze flit over his face. Her thumb slid across his cheekbone and back again. He almost shivered and the featherlight feel of it. “Some men look like golden princes but end up being the devil incarnate.” She slipped from the desk then, turning away to go back to the front of the class, taking her touch with her.

That afternoon, Jon got himself some time in the computer room. He googled Sansa Baratheon and the search came up with some images of her own art. They started out bright and colourful – studies of animals and figures and flowers. She was good, too. But as Jon scrolled, there appeared to be a marked difference in the pieces she was creating more recently. The newer works were abstract, quick, furious brush strokes with frustration and anger drenched in every mark. They were mostly dark – a lot of navy blues and blacks with the odd flash of red streaking across the canvas. Jon wondered what it all meant. He saw those pieces of art behind his eyelids when he was lying in his bunk that night. He felt the ghost of her touch on his cheek too.

He thinks he may have figured it out during their next session.

Sansa’s re-wearing her cherry red dress – the one she wore when he first laid eyes on her, but this time, she has a cream-coloured cardigan on over the top. Greeting him with a smile, Jon doesn’t miss the way her eyes are rimmed with the slightest hint of sorrowful red to match her dress. She tugs on the sleeve of her cardigan and proceeds to empty her bag of the things they’ll be using today.

“I thought a bit of colour might cheer us up,” Sansa offers, handing him a pack of pastels.

He took them, frowning down at the small box. “Do we need cheering up?”

“Well I certainly do,” she said with a quick sniff. Jon got the feeling that she didn’t particularly want to talk about it.

Handing him a grey coloured piece of card, Sansa was about to issue her instructions for the session when Jon noticed an angry purple looking blotch peeking out from under her sleeve at her wrist. He caught her hand before she could retract it, pulling it towards him and pushing her cardigan sleeve up.

“Jon,” she protested.

He turned her wrist as he continued to stare down at the ugly bruising. It was like some kind of macabre bracelet in greys and purples and a tinge of angry pink. “Who did this?” he asked, his voice sounding a hell of a lot calmer than the storm raging in his gut. He began tracing the marks on her otherwise perfect alabaster skin with the very tip of his index finger, both their breaths caught in their throats as he did.

Sansa did not answer.

Jon’s touch slid from her wrist to the back of her hand, feeling strangely drawn to that big rock she wears on her finger. He circled the flashy diamond a few times before looking up at her. “It was him wasn’t it?”

Again, she did not answer but the shuddering inhale she took was answer enough. Jon’s stomach rolled with hot liquid rage.

_I’m gonna kill him._

The next session Jon doesn’t even wait until Sansa has reached into her bag of art equipment like she usually does. He places his plastic chair directly in front of her desk and sits on it backwards, straddling the seat with his arms folded along the backrest. “Why do you stay with him?” he asks, without preamble.

Sansa sighs and sits down. She chews on her bottom lip before seeming to make up her mind about something and reaches up to untie her ponytail. Her elegant copper hair falls around her shoulders. Jon’s hands flex with a sudden urge to comb through it, twist it around his fist and tug at it ever so slightly. He wonders if she’d like that.

“Joff isn’t always like that,” she started.

Jon cocked his head and blinked at her. “Are you defending him?”

He watches as Sansa closes her eyes and lets a long breath out through her nose. “No.” Jon’s gaze drops to the rock on her hand again and Sansa follows his line of sight. She fiddles with the ring, loosening it and pulling it up over her knuckle, almost clean off her finger – but she stops just shy of actually completing the task before pushing it back down to its original position. “I used to think I loved him,” she confessed making Jon’s eyes fly to hers. They were so blue, so honest and vulnerable. He felt the sting of anger low in his belly again like acidic bile. “he was a different man back then,” she continued, “he was sweet, attentive and flattering. It was all for show. His family are beyond wealthy you see and Joff… well, Joff was used to getting his own way.”

Jon fought back the growl building in his throat.

“If I leave him… it will dent his pride and-“

“ _Fuck_ his pride.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then _make_ me.”

She glanced at the windows out to the hallway, the guard had already scarpered. “This isn’t what these sessions are about, Jon. I’m meant to be here to help you-“

“Why do you stay with him?” he repeated, irritation twisting around his insides like razor wire.

Colour rose in her cheeks and she stood to begin striding towards the door. He couldn’t have that. Jon was up and after her in an instant, placing a hand on the door just as Sansa reached for the handle. “You deserve better,” he rasped, his pulse quickening with their new proximity. Sansa turned to face him, letting her grasp fall from the door handle. Jon straightened, his hand returning to his side. “No one should live like that. Endure that kind of life.”

Sansa gave him a faint whisper of a smile. A small acknowledgement of his statement. “Joff and his family have made it clear that they would make my life hell if I left.”

“Could it get any worse than it is now?” Jon wondered out loud.

“You don’t know them. They have money, they have connections, they’re very powerful. They could not only ruin my life, but my family’s too,” Sansa said in a small scratchy voice. Her eyes lowered to the centre of Jon’s chest.

 _I have connections,_ Jon considered, a seedling of a thought taking root. He reached up slowly, tentatively, until his hand was cupping the side of her face like she had done to him. Their eyes met and she let out a shaky breath causing Jon’s gaze to fall to her lips. “I could help you.”

“How?” she chuckled disbelievingly.

He stroked her cheek. Her skin was so soft. _She_ was so soft. Too good. How could anyone want to blemish her with pain? “You know what I’m capable of. You’ve read my file.”

They shared a look. Some kind of barely there understanding of what was really being said. Her tongue darted out to swipe at her lips and Jon found his thumb wandering towards the movement. He watched as he traced her mouth, feeling her hot breath on his skin. Her lips parted a fraction and before he knew it, he’d pushed the very tip of his thumb into her warm, wet mouth to meet with her tongue. She nipped him delicately with her teeth and his digit retreated, dragging down her bottom lip a bit in the process.

He continued his finger’s path down her chin and towards her throat. She was wearing that little red scarf around her neck again today and something about it struck as looking odd. Instinct overtook him, and Jon moved to pull at the knot around her neck, the red fabric fluttering to the floor to reveal a choker to match the bracelet her husband had gifted her.

All around her throat were raw looking marks where a demon had gotten his filthy paws on her. He imagined the force that that bastard would’ve had to squeeze with to leave those kinds of patterns behind. Sansa would’ve likely feared for her life. Would she have clawed desperately at his grasp with wide eyes pleading with him to let her breathe? Would he have taunted her? Would he have enjoyed this sick act he’d exerted on his wife? Jon’s nostrils flared and he’s sure he let out a snarl.

_I am definitely going to kill him._

He traced the wine red and pinkish trail around her throat carefully with his fingertips until Sansa’s hand stopped him by gently pressing atop his. His eyes moved to find hers glistening. That was too much to bear; _fuck anyone who would do this to her._ His gaze dropped to the angry marks once more and he found himself ducking his head to press a soft kiss to the side of her neck, directly over her husband’s grip.

Sansa inhaled sharply before Jon repeated the action. She tipped her head back to allow him better access and he took that as permission to continue. He kissed and licked his way across her throat, following the path of her injury, feeling the motion of her swallow under his tongue, wanting to wipe away the ugly blemishes that cunt had left behind.

Once he got to the other side of her neck, Jon peppered kisses up to her ear and sucked her lobe into his mouth. “I’ll kill him,” he whispered.

Sansa pulled back from him slowly and Jon had to wonder how she might take his statement. She doesn’t love her husband – she _can’t possibly_ , not now, not after subjecting her to this. But other people seem to act differently than Jon when it comes to snubbing out a life, and he briefly thinks he may have fucked up when her eyes are wide and her mouth is parted. Would she shriek for a guard? Would she tell the Governor that Jon Snow plans on committing murder?

She does none of those things. Instead, her eyes fall to his lips and she slowly, tentatively, shakily moves forward to issue the sweetest, most gentle kiss Jon has ever known. He groans but freezes, wanting to take more from her but not wanting to scare her off.

Her arms come up to wrap around his neck as his hands settle on her hips. Sansa angles her head to better deepen the kiss and Jon takes that as his cue to press her back against the door. His tongue slides over Sansa’s making her moan into his mouth. Jon blindly reaches out to turn the lock on the door.

“ _Fuck,”_ he curses, breaking off their kiss and issuing little pecks before returning to her neck and grinding his rapidly hardening cock against her like some kind of dog. “You are so fucking beautiful, Sansa. I’ve wanted you since I first laid eyes on you,” Jon confesses, his hand reaching up to squeeze her breast through her sweater. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

“And you do?” she keens, her head falling back against the door with a soft thump as her hips dance against his.

“Maybe not,” Jon concedes, rutting against her and panting into her throat as she fists at his hair, “but I would never hurt you. I’d only make you feel good… Let me make you feel good Sansa.”

She doesn’t say anything, only nods and licks at her lips, her face turned up to the ceiling and her eyes closed. Jon’s hand snakes down to the snap on her trousers, he makes quick one handed work of it and then tugs at her zipper.

She’s warm and smooth when his hand slips under the waistband of her little lace panties and Jon fails to bite back another groan to find her folds silky wet for him too. “I want to go down on you,” he tells her, knowing it would be too risky right now. “I want you to wear a skirt for our next session and I want to push it up to your hips when you’re laying back on that desk,” Jon jerks his head back, gesturing to the item of furniture in question. “I want to part those creamy thighs and see your pretty little cunt, _Mrs Baratheon.”_ Jon’s voice is deep and coated in raw, dirty desire. He watches Sansa bite her lip, her brow furrowing as she squeezes her eyes closed. “I want to taste you,” he continues, his fingers trail up through her to find that sacred little bundle of nerves. He circles it teasingly and sucks on her neck before continuing to husk in her ear. “I’m going to suckle on this little clit right here. You’d like that wouldn’t you?” Sansa whimpers and nods in acknowledgement, bucking into his touch. “Don’t worry sweetheart, I’ll treat you good.” Jon coos as his fingers continue to work her where his hand is stuffed down her trousers and in her underwear. It’s a tight fit, but he does what he can. “I’ll make you feel a million times better then that prick of a husband ever could. Just you wait till I get my mouth on you,” his fingers press firmer as they rub her in circles. “I’ll lick and suck at this cute little cunt until you cum on my tongue, then I’ll lap you up until you’re ready for me again.”

Sansa gasps and clutches harder at his shoulders. “You gonna cum for me sweetheart?” She nods once more, unable to speak.

When it’s done - when Jon knows what Sansa Baratheon sounds like as she falls apart on his fingers, how she pants, and shivers, and sighs his name, kissing him ferociously like she were trying to convey some kind of passionate gratitude – after he licks his fingers clean of her and she kisses him once more, Jon seeks out the guard in the hallway.

“I want those security tapes,” he states flatly. The man scoffs in response making Jon narrow his eyes and purse his lips. “I want those security tapes, _and_ the ones that will cover any future sessions I have with Mrs Baratheon.”

“Listen here, buddy-“ the man starts before Jon reaches out and squeezes his shoulder in a mock pally fashion.

“No,” he chuckles mirthlessly, his hand roughly kneading at the man before he pats him and straightens his uniform shirt, “you listen, buddy. Clear it with the Governor if you must. You run along and tell the big man on top that Jon Snow wants those tapes. You tell him that if Jon Snow doesn’t get those tapes, then Jon Snow will be having some words with his good friend Mance. Alright?”

The man blinked back at him owlishly, his mouth opening only to close again. Jon glanced at the his name badge and a memory came back to him – a useful memory.

“How’s the wife doing at her new job?” he asked, remembering a conversation he’d overheard, “down at that little cake shop in south street, wasn’t it?” Jon asked, tilting his head menacingly all whilst keeping a faux friendly smile upon his lips.

The man spluttered with wide, panicked eyes. Jon couldn’t blame him. He didn’t know that he’d never lay a hand on a woman. He just wanted what he wanted – and that happened to be Sansa. Inflicting fear was just the fastest way of achieving that.

He reached across and pat at the side of the guard’s face, stopping him from trying to execute a sentence. “Be a good boy and run to security. Get those tapes for me. Put those, and the future ones with my personal items for when I get out of this shit-hole in a few months. Okay?” Jon stroked his hand down his beard whilst keeping his eyes locked with the guards. He could still detect the scent of Sansa on his fingers.

“S-sure.”

Jon grinned and bobbed his head in satisfaction. “Good.”

For the next session, Sansa wore a knee-length floaty floral skirt and a pastel coloured cashmere cardigan buttoned all the way up to meet the scarf around her neck. She looked prim and proper, sweet and innocent – even when Jon had her thighs quivering around his ears and her hips bucking up to press into his greedy mouth. She was a fucking angel and Jon intended to worship this ethereal being with his head between her legs and his hand on his cock.

Afterward, Sansa would clean up the evidence of his efforts that had spurted onto that utilitarian floor with a wet-wipe from her purse. Because all good girls carry those sorts of things. Then they would open the blinds of the windows and sit and talk a while before their time was up.

She told him about her family and how things were before her husband decided she was not worth his respect. He opened up to her about his lack of family and some of how being linked with Mance has affected his life – not going into too much detail through fear of scaring her or putting her in a position of danger. Knowledge can be a terrible thing sometimes.

Sansa asked him about the security camera once. Jon told her that he had it handled. She didn’t didn’t broach the subject again after that. Whether she trusted and believed him, or whether she just didn’t care, Jon’s not sure.

“Nice dress,” he says when she rocks up in a number he’s not seen her wear before. It’s tight and low cut and has a slit that travels dangerously high up to her thigh. She still wears her scarf and chunky bangles on her wrists. Sansa answers him with a quick flash of a sad excuse for a smile. “Hey,” he responds softly, placing his hand on her arm, “what is it?”

“Joffrey bought it,” she sighed, “he told me to wear it today because we’re hosting poker night with his friends.” Her gaze drops to the floor and she crosses her arms over herself. “He said he wanted his pals to _‘get a little preview of what he gets to fuck whenever he wants’_.”

Jon closed his eyes. _Soon,_ he thinks, _soon I’ll be out and can put my plan into motion._ He manages to calm his seething rage when he looks to Sansa. She looks ashamed, and he can’t have that.

Taking two steps forward is all it takes for him to gather her up in his arms. He buries his nose in her hair behind her ear and just breathes - _just_ holds her and breathes her in before rasping against her ear. “I _will_ kill him.”

Before he knows it, Sansa has his face in her hands and her mouth on his, kissing him ferociously and dragging him forwards with her towards her desk. “ _Fuck me,_ ” she whispers between kisses, “ _please_ , fuck me, Jon.”

“You sure?” he asks, although his hand is already pushing down his prison overalls to his thighs. His boxer shorts join them and his cock springs free with an enthusiastic bounce. Sansa nods and she perches herself on the desk behind her, reaching out to give him a couple of strokes that cause Jon to hiss and throw his head back.

When he looks to her again, she’s already shimmying her panties down her legs. “Can I eat you out first?”

“Not enough time,” she shakes her head, “ _I want you now_.”

Sansa surges forward to kiss him again, her desperate hands fisting in his white vest and tugging him down on top of her as she lays back.

Jon finally straightens and reaches down to position himself. Sansa raises onto her elbows and they both watch him push slowly into her. _“Fuck!”_ he groans once fully surrounded by her tight heat. He won't admit to it, but he feels pleasantly dizzy from the sensation.

Jon leans forward, sealing his intent with a searing kiss before joining their foreheads while they pant in unison, their gaze locked on one another. “I want you to leave him,” he tells her as he pulls out and pushes back in, the desk making a slight knocking noise with each thrust. Jon reaches to hook both hands under knees to pull her legs up and push them farther apart. “Don’t go back to him. I can set you up with somewhere safe and-“

Sansa cuts him off with a kiss. “I can’t” she says in a cracked voice, her body being rhythmically jostled with each rut into her.

 _Fine!_ He thinks angrily, even though it’s not fine at all.

“Alright,” he concedes reluctantly, picking up the pace and force of his thrusts making her groan and bite on her lip. “If you have to go back there tonight, if you have to go back to _him_ , I want you to remember this.” Jon growls, beginning to pound into her and reaching down to strum that knot of nerves with his thumb. The desk began to protest loudly. “I want my cum coating the inside of your thighs as you flit around his fancy house, playing perfect hostess for his asshole buddies.”

Sansa’s head fell back to the desk with a soft thud, her mouth hanging loosely open. “Oh _fuck,_ Jon!” she gasped.

“When you’re handing out the drinks and snacks in that expensive dress of yours, I want you to remember this. I want you to remember how you laid out on a table for me, legs spread wide in the middle of the day, a prison guard standing outside that door.” Sansa’s head rolled from side to side, her legs began to shake.

_“Ahh Jon!”_

“You like that, sweetheart? Does my good girl like me saying filthy things while I fuck her?” Sansa opened her eyes and nods. “You want me to cum inside you, Sansa?” he grunts.

“Yes,” she breathes, barely a whisper.

She starts trying to bite back her groans then, conscious of the guard beyond the door. It doesn’t matter – the rhythmic scraping of the desk legs against the floor should be clue enough to what’s happening. And in a maddening way, Jon really couldn’t give two shits about it – not when Sansa’s clutching at his arm and panting his name as he feels her flutter around him.

When he’s spent, slumped forward over Sansa, gasping and puffing into the side of her neck like he’s just run a thousand marathons, he stays there, his cock now only half hard inside her. Sansa brings her arms up to encircle him, one hand stroking his hair and the other trailing up and down his sweaty spine over his prison vest. His heartbeat gradually slows to a steady pounding against his ribs, he can feel her own heart beat back up at him like they were in conversation. _Mine_ , he thinks as she squeezes her legs around his hips. _Mine._

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts with Jon's PoV then switches to Joffrey's (which was a weird experience writing from his PoV... I don't think I'll be repeating that one)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look! Amy added another chapter...and the fic is STILL not finished! Ah well - you'll get over it lol
> 
> Lots of mentions of the word 'fuck' and 'cunt' in this chapter - Jon gets REALLY sadistic in the next chapter....

Maybe Jon did use Mance’s somewhat fatherly feelings towards him to his own advantage. Not that Jon thinks he should really _care_ – he’s given him his loyalty time and time again over the years, he’s accepted a sentence that should have been the older man’s. _Fuck,_ he’s even ended a handful of lives on nothing more than a word from his boss. So, Jon figures, Mance _owes_ him.

Using up the credit on his call card, and then demanding some more, Jon managed to get what he wanted out the old man.

“Yer ask a lot, lad,” Mance had sighed down the other end of the call. Jon imagined him scratching at his stubbly beard - even thought he could hear the spikey rasp of it. “You sure this is what yer want?”

“Yes,” Jon confirmed, glaring at the inmate who came up behind him to await his turn with the block telephone. He scarpered as soon as he’d realised his faux pas. Jon wet his lips and hunched his shoulders, his arm resting on the top of the wall-mounted phone box. “I want it like I said – _exactly_ like I said.”

“And if I do this for you, yer still don’t wanna come back to the business?”

“No.”

“I’ll have to take that fancy apartment of yours off yer, the car too. Can’t be supplimentin’ folks that don’t work for me no more, no matter what you’ve done. And if I ever find out that you’ve turned to squealin’ on me, I’ll-“

“I ain’t no rat. I’m not gonna squeal on you, Mance.” Jon closed his eyes and sighed. A vision of Sansa appeared behind his eyelids, clear as day, she was kissing him slow and sweet after they’d both become sweaty messes up against the door of her classroom. Jon wonders if she gets off on the thrill of it; the guard listening on the other side, the way Jon would make the door rattle rhythmically with each thrust. Everything was so feverish and needy, but then, _after_ , she would kiss him gentle and tender. Like she was trying to tell him something.

Jon shook himself out of his stupor. He knew what he wanted. “Take back whatever is yours, Mance, but I’m not coming back. I want out of this game, you know? I really wanna try going straight,” he paused, sucking in a breath, “I need to try.”

“And what of this last favour, Jon? Doesn’t sound too straight to me.”

“Just this one last thing. It’s just somethin’ I gotta do.”

There were a few long seconds of silence at the other end of the line before Jon’s boss finally spoke. “Very well. I will do you this favour-“

“Don’t call it that,” Jon interrupted, “s’not a favour, Mance. I know you expect your favours to be repaid. I _ain’t_ comin’ back… Either you help me with this, or I do it on my own.” Jon took the opportunity to glance around to see if anyone was in earshot. “I stand a better chance of not getting’ caught with your help. If anything, _I_ did _you_ a favour for takin’ the fall… and now it’s time for your repayment.” Mance said nothing. “This is all I will ever ask. After this, I’ll be gone. You won’t hear from me again, Mance.”

The old man sighed. “It is a shame. I like you, lad. Liked havin’ you by my side. But I’ll do this thing for you… an’ I’ll wish you well.”

“Thank you, Mance.”

****

Release day…

Pulling on a pair of jeans felt odd after years of prison overalls. They were the same pair of jeans he wore when he came to this place six years ago. His t-shirt was a bit tight across his shoulder blades and Jon wonders if all those press ups in his cell have made an impact.

Along with his clothes, he gets handed a clear bag and a brown envelope. The bag contains his phone, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter and his Rolex – putting on the watch felt heavy on his wrist. Mance had given it to him when he’d successfully negotiated his first deal with some new _‘friends’_ from Braavos. Jon had secured the purest powder they’d seen on Westerosi soil – and at a good price too. Opening the envelope, he sees five identical memory cards. He nods to himself in satisfaction and makes his way to finish the paperwork to finally escape this shit heap.

The security doors buzz and unlock and Jon gives the stern looking portly woman a salute before he steps foot out of the main building of Castle Black Prison. The air seems fresher out here – which is utter bullshit, he knows - it’s the same God-damned air that he sucked through his lungs over on the other side of the building out in the inmate’s yard. But Jon decides it’s cleaner, none-the-less. He shakes a cig from his packet and puts it between his lips.

With barely his first puff wafting away in the breeze, a pristine white jeep grand cherokee pulled up in front of him before he had a chance to even think about calling a cab. He blinked at the vehicle before the passenger side window silently rolled down.

_Mance never said he was sending someone._

“Can I give you a lift?” a voice said from inside, and honestly, it was the sweetest honeysuckle sound Jon could ever imagine. His smile widened as he stared at Sansa with her hand on the wheel, looking at him expectantly. He made a move to climb in. “Ah!” she admonished, jerking her head at the cigarette in his mouth.

“Christ,” Jon muttered, throwing the offending item on the floor and stubbing it with his boot against the paving slab. “Can’t a man enjoy himself on his first day of freedom?”

“He can. Just not with those things,” she sniffed, watching him slide into the passenger seat. She raised her brows until he relented and buckled up. “Besides, they’re bad for you.”

Jon chuckled as the car began to move, Sansa changing gears smoothly as the calming rumble of the engine reminded him of what things were like on the outside. He gave her his address – well, it would be his until Mance reclaimed it – and she raised her brow, knowing it was a particularly nice neighbourhood with fancy new apartments and underground garages filled with flash cars.

 _I expect you know what kind of money bought that address too,_ _hey sweetheart,_ he thought, turning to watch the outside world go by.

“Why’d you pick me up?” he asked after not being able to look away from her for long. Her perfume was particularly intoxicating in here – in the confines of her car.

Sansa shrugged and nudged a button to notch the air-con up a bit right before she indicated to take a turning. “I thought you might not have anyone to do that for you.”

“I don’t…or… I didn’t,” he says thoughtfully, liking the idea of her thinking of him. “I was just gonna get a cab.”

Sansa glances over at him, her lips twitching into a flash of a smile before her concentration is on the road again and she’s making yet another smooth turning.

“Where is he today?” Jon asks, eyeing the rock glinting on her finger.

“His secretary called to say that he’s decided to take the weekend to go golfing with friends,” she answered, casual as you please, “but when I called one of them to confirm, he sounded confused at first before trying to cover my husband’s tracks by lying through his teeth.”

_Hm, this could work to my advantage._

“Why do you think he’s lying?”

Sansa switched gear, her lip curing up into a little snarl that Jon finds insanely attractive. “Because I’ve long come to the conclusion that there is another woman…or _women_ , I don’t know. I don’t care anymore, they can have him. His buddies are just covering for him I suppose. He’s not going golfing.”

Jon’s not sure what possesses him then – call it recklessness, call it _utter insanity_ , but he can’t stop the words from flying from his lips, “A buddy of mine is letting me get away for the weekend at his lake house. Do you wanna come?”

She agrees with a shy smile and Jon’s heart would feel almost fit to burst if it weren’t for the plans rolling around in the back of his head right then.

Sansa drops him off outside his building. He tentatively asks if he can kiss her – here, in her car. It’s different on the outside somehow – strange, but no less exciting and heady. The press of her lips is lingering and sweet, and her eyes open slowly to stare back at his. “I’ll be back once I’ve packed,” she promises before Jon hops from her car and watches her turn the corner out of view.

He doesn’t go straight for the building entrance, instead Jon heads for the underground garage. His mind recalls the fake plate number Mance had given him over the phone, as well as the make and model of car. A rather pleasant, yet unremarkable looking shiny black Audi sat in the space next to his own car. He approached it and ducked down to find a key taped under the wheel-arch of the passenger rear wheel. The trunk popped open satisfyingly with a single press of a button on the key, and Jon grinned down at what he found there.

Joffrey Baratheon squinted up at him before he began to squirm against his bindings. His arms were secured behind his back with black cable-ties at his wrists, his ankles were given a similar treatment. Joff huffed angrily from his nose, the silver duct tape across his mouth was stopping whatever it was he was trying to yell and seethe up at Jon.

 _Thank you, Mance,_ Jon thought to himself, reaching down to pat the cunt’s face – a face that was flush with a furious shade of red. “We’re going on a little weekend break, Mr Baratheon,” he told him, cool and calm, “get comfortable, it’ll be a long ride.

 

 

 

**Joffrey PoV…**

The car hit a pothole or something, jerking Joff and making his head bounce up and down again against the bottom of the trunk. When he gets out of here he’s gonna _kill_ this fucking prick.

One minute he’s at a bar drinking with Ros, his secretary, looking forward to the hotel room he’d booked for them this weekend, the next some chick slides into their booth, saying she’d bought them both drinks. She was a pretty thing. Too talkative for his liking - she just _would not_ shut up. Joff almost got up and left, keen to get Ros on her back… or on her knees for him again. But then talk turned to this girl possibly joining them for some fun, and well… _that_ was the most interesting thing to come out of her mouth.

The next thing he knows, he’s feeling a little whoozy, using both girls to prop himself up as his arms are around their shoulders at either side of him. They guided him outside and out of nowhere some punk comes and punches him in the gut before he feels an almighty crack across the back of his head. Everything went black after that. And now here he is, wrists and ankles bound painfully tight and duct tape across his mouth.

He’s been trying to scream for what seems like ages; first when he’d woken up in this predicament all foggy-headed and aching in the dark unknown, and then when he’d got a look at the guy who popped open the trunk. But it was of no use, the tape across his mouth muffled all his efforts and all he was doing was wearing himself out.

So, he waited.

The prick knew his name. He must know the kind of money his family had. Most likely he is trying his luck for a ransom. Fine. Whatever. His mother will pay, of that Joff has no doubt. If it’s not a ransom they’re after, then Joff can easily negotiate whatever amount it’ll take to let him go. But he won’t forget. Oh no. This was _humiliating._ And he will not stand for it. He’s memorised the face of that cunt who opened the trunk and he’ll find a way to make him pay.

After what seemed like hours, the car came to a stop and the engine turned off. He thought that he’d be hauled out the trunk pretty soon but the scumbag kept him waiting. The space he was in was cramped and hot, his own stale breathing only seeming to make it worse, the only thing he could do was sweat… and wait.

He waited, and he waited, and he waited, his anger growing inside him like a living animal. This guy _will not_ get away with this.

Finally, some fresh air rushed in and Joff filled his lungs through his nose. He raged against his bindings and the tape across his lips. It was the same man he thinks – all he can make out is that he has dark hair and a beard, the day had given way to night and he was unable to detect exactly where they were when the cunt grabbed him and hauled him over his shoulder like Joff was no more than a hunted beast. He tried and failed to kick and scream.

He _will kill_ this prick.

Joff was deposited into a crappy wooden chair in the middle of a very bare room. He waited for the man to rip the tape from his mouth so he can hurry up and get to the business side of this whole fucking ordeal. He’ll offer him money and this low life will accept it – and by the looks of the room, he needs it too. The unknown man said nothing, only proceeded to bind him to the chair. He cut his ankles free and Joff made to kick him in the face, but the cunt was faster and soon he was attached to the chair-legs by a couple of cable-ties. He fussed around his back too, making sure there was no way he could move. It was tight and uncomfortable and Joff had had _enough_.

Oh! Joffrey is going to make him regret this. He should be fucking Ros by now, or sleeping off a session. Hell, even his useless fucking wife should’ve tried to call him – a call he normally ignores. He glanced down to his jeans pocket – there was still the phone-size bulge on his thigh. He hadn’t heard any calls.

The man came ‘round the front of him and Joff glared his disgust up right into the scumbag’s eyes, silently telling the prick that his days were numbered. He had the _audacity_ to chuckle. _‘What the fuck do you think you’re laughing at?!’_ he tried to scream, but all that came out was muffled grunts. His wrists hurt from where he tugged and twisted. In the end all he could settle for was flaring his nostrils and throwing daggers at him with his stare.

Leaning down to be eye level, the man put one of his filthy hands on Joff’s shoulder, the other coming up to rest a finger against his lips before he pointed upwards towards the ceiling. If this twat wanted Joff to be quiet, then he’s got another think coming.

He suddenly realised that the sound of running water -a shower- was shut off. There was someone else in this house.

“That’s my girl up there,” the man said in a thick northern voice. _Of course_ he was northern. They’re all scum around here – the lot of them. “She wanted a shower to soothe her tired muscles,” he paused to smirk an infuriating grin with his head cocked to the side. Joffrey can’t even begin to think what this cretin could be so smug about. His house was a shithole as far as he could see. He was obviously poor. “I’ve been working her up good… if you know what I mean, Joff?” the ass winked at him and pat at the side of his face. Joff reared back from the touch.

“I guess she’s stepping out of the shower,” the man straightened and looked up to the ceiling with a self-satisfied air about him. “All that soft creamy skin warm and wet from the water… just the thought of it makes me hard… I think I might have to go and make her muscles sore all over again.” The prick grinned at him and made his way to the door, pausing to turn back at Joffrey to issue his parting words. “Unfortunately, it’s a very squeaky bedframe so apologies if it sounds as if I’m fucking her like some kind of wild animal, but you know how it is, Joff,” the cunt shrugged, “I’ll be back once I’ve satisfied myself…and my girl… a couple more times.”

The door closed and Joff heard a lock being turned.

It turns out the bed in the room above was _incredibly_ loud. As were the muffled grunts and groans and the litany of feminine moans that assaulted Joff’s ears. He’s half ashamed to admit he got hard himself as the bedsprings creaked and the headboard thrashed against the wall in a thumping rhythmic song of fucking.

By the second time he hears the long groan of a man emptying his balls, Joff is about ready to strangle someone. How _dare_ he?! How dare anyone treat him this way?! He is Joffrey fucking Baratheon and never in his life has he had to wait for _anything._ But now he’s forced to endure this just because some little shit won’t get on with accepting whatever price for Joff to go free? He may not know where the fuck he is, or who the fuck is holding him captive, but one thing’s for sure – the cunt is going to regret it.

An hour passes, maybe two, and finally, _finally,_ the twat shows up again, swaggering in wearing nothing but a fucking pristine white bath towel around his hips. He was carrying a laptop under his arm and beer in one hand. The asshole greets Joffrey like they were old buddies. Joff only grunts in response.

A small table gets dragged to be directly in front of Joff, the laptop placed upon it. Then the guy grabs another cheap wooden chair and puts it beside Joffrey like they were both about to sit there watching Netflix together or some shit.

“I made a couple of films for you, Joff,” the man said, pushing a memory card into the drive, “I really, _really_ enjoyed making them. I hope you can appreciate the effort.” What the fuck was this prick on about now?

The man dragged the mouse and clicked here and there before a media player popped up and the screen was suddenly filled with an image of some kind of classroom. Interference occasionally rolled up the screen in blinking horizontal lines and Joff got the feeling he was watching security footage of some sort. He narrowed his eyes at the computer before glancing at the guy sat to his right. What the fuck is this?

“There’s me,” the guy said, pointing to the screen. “Inmate #230065,” he turns his grin in Joff’s direction, “but you can call me Jon… Oh! And look! Here’s my girl.” The screen takes Joff’s attention again and his eyes widen when his wife walks into view. He stares dumfounded for a few seconds, trying to fit together the pieces of the puzzle. “Well… I guess you know her as _‘your wife’_ , but she’s been my ‘good girl’ for a solid four months now.”

Joffrey raged against his bindings and the tape across his mouth. What _the fuck_ does this cunt mean?! His _‘good girl’?!_ What the fuck is this all about?! Why does he have tapes of Sansa?! Boiling hot rage bubbled all over his body, he could practically feel his face going a frantic red colour as he screamed and screamed in the direction of this ‘Jon’ prick. It was no use, the asshole only ignored him as if he weren’t even there at all! He even cracked open his beer and took a swill all whilst his eyes were glued to the screen.

“Oh,” Jon said, “Joff, you’re missing it…this is good part – watch.”

Joffrey’s muffled promises of a painful death died as soon as he started watching the tape again. His wife was getting on her knees in front of this piece of scum. No, no, no! That little _slut!_ He vowed that as soon as he got away from this place, he would hunt down and kill both this Jon cunt and his own wife. They would both feel the wrath of Joffrey Baratheon. He will make them _pay!_ How _dare_ she touch anyone else like that, the little whore!?! She was lucky to be his wife, live the life he gave her with his family’s money! Joffrey panted heavily from his nose, his body full of fury as he watched his wife take another man’s cock out from his boxer shorts and lick a long wet stripe up the underside before spitting on it and working it with her hand.”

“I particularly like it when she does that,” Jon said conversationally, “it’s like… she’s this gorgeous prim and proper goody-two-shoes girl… then she gets on her knees for me and spits on my cock? _Fuck, man!_ That’s some hot shit right there… _hey!”_ he said, sounding irritated as he reached over to roughly grab Joff by the underside of his chin, “you listening?”

He hadn’t been. He was too busy seething at the image of his stupid whore of a wife eagerly swallowing another man’s cock. Jon shoved his face away, sneering before he leant over and clicked at the computer a few times again.

The tape started showing the fucker bending Sansa over a desk and slamming into her from behind. Joff felt sick.

“I gotta ask,” Jon said, picking imaginary fluff from the towel around his waist, “what kind of dumb cunt treats their wife the way you do with my good girl, hm?” He leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees and jabbed at his temple, “what the fuck is wrong with you up here to think that you can do that?”

Joffrey doesn’t answer. He can’t. But he wouldn’t have anyway. Is this what this is all about? Just because he smacked his wife around sometimes when she did or said something stupid? What the fuck? What he did in his own house with his wife was his business, but it seems Sansa thought otherwise and went running to this little shit – some prison scum she’s groomed with her moronic little art classes.

Jon leant back in his chair and regarded Joffrey for a while. “Your life’s just been a big ol’ bowl of peaches and cream so far, hasn’t it Joff?” he asked after a while, pausing to take another leisurely swig of his beer. Joffrey distantly acknowledged that he was thirsty as fuck, but he refused to give the man satisfaction by longingly eyeing his drink, instead he continued to stare him down. Jon chuckled darkly. “You got the money, you got the lifestyle, you got the beautiful wife. You don’t deserve any of it, least of all her… She’s _mine_ now.” He got up, placing his beer in plain view of Joff, but torturously out of reach right next to the laptop. “Why don’t you spend a night watching _all_ the ways I made her mine? There’s some good ones on there – she’s quite the pleaser.”

Joff struggled and grunted as Jon swaggered back over to the door. He paused, turning around to issue his parting words for the night. “Enjoy! I’ll be back tomorrow sometime for some more fun.”

With that, he unlocked and opened the door to find Sansa stood on the other side of it, wearing nothing but a man’s t-shirt. Her arms were folded in front of her chest. “Sansa,” the man gasped, “I-“

“Thought I was a sleep?” she interrupted, raising a brow. She looked past Jon to see Joffrey bound and gagged. Joff pleaded with his eyes and tried to say something. Sansa would get him out of this, then, _then_ he would make her pay. He thought she might look shocked, or terrified. Instead she looked completely unaffected. Her gaze snapped back to Jon stood in front of her. “What are you gonna do with him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys - i ended it there because this chapter was getting long and this is where the PoV switches - I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know!
> 
> (Jon ain't done with Joffrey yet)

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if you enjoyed this first chapter! xxxxx


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